


Beauty and the Doorstop.

by Imagine_Darksiders



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Celebrity Reader, Chancellor is guilty of home invasion, F/M, Human technology frightens him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-07-16 14:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16087622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagine_Darksiders/pseuds/Imagine_Darksiders
Summary: You just want to shower and watch Netflix in peace. Unfortunately for you, the Lord of Bones desires your presence for something and he's sent his most despised advisor to fetch you. But first, you need to get changed.





	1. Home Invader

Soft, melodic music flows though the modestly sized cottage, from the bedroom to the ensuite where you stand before the large, fogged-up mirror, wrapping your hair up in a towel and securing another larger one around your body. There’s a delectable scent of lavender and waterlily wafting out of the door, filling your bedroom with a pleasant aroma. 

Carefully, you pat down the edges of your bright green face mask and nod once you’re certain it’s properly fitted, taking a moment to grin at the fact that you once again  _have_  the luxury of wearing a face mask. 

Humming along to the music, you pad back into your room, glancing at the clock on the wall before taking a seat on the white, faux-fur stool at your vanity. You lean forwards and pick up a small bottle of dab-on perfume, tugging off the top to dab a few drops behind your ears before placing it down and lightly touching your fingertips to the underside of your jaw, head turning this way and that to inspect yourself in the mirror. When you peer into the leftmost section of the vanity, you blink- 

\- and promptly let out a shriek so piercing, you almost burst your own eardrums. 

In your haste to spin around and leap to your feet, the poor stool is kicked backwards and bumps into the table behind you, knocking over various tall bottles of toner and other products. 

All of this goes ignored, however, as you’re much too bust trying to squash down the rush of panic blazing through your veins to properly recall the combat manoeuvres that Thane - a fearsome maker warrior - had taught you. 

“I’d ask if this was a bad time.. But, truth be told, I don’t really care if it  _is_.”

That voice…

You pause. 

You  _know_  that sneering, self-important tone. In fact, now that you take a proper look, you even recognise the man it  _belongs_  to!

“ _Chancellor_?!” you blurt, hand flying to your chest and tugging the towel up a fraction. 

There, in your bedroom, stands the very last person you ever expected - or  _wanted_  - to see. The most sour-faced, cruel-tongued creep you’d ever had the displeasure of running across during your quest to help Death clear his brother’s name. 

The Chancellor belongs to a race of undead beings who inhabit a realm appropriately named ‘The Dead Lands,’ and he serves as second in command and royal advisor to the ruler of that realm; The Lord of Bones. And  _this_ particular undead has a penchant for tearing you apart verbally and making you feel about an inch tall every time you speak to him. He’s notoriously  **not**  a fan of just about everyone, humans least of all, apparently. So the mere fact that he’s here - in your bedroom - is a good enough reason to be utterly flabbergasted. In fact, you’d have been  _less_  surprised if Samael turned up. 

The undead is giving you as flat and unimpressed a look as he can muster, his hands folded neatly over his stomach whilst a pair of grey, lifeless eyes bore into you mercilessly from their hollow sockets. They sweep from your face down to your bare feet and back up again to your towel-bundled hair. A shudder lances up your spine and you suddenly feel very exposed. 

“Immodest,” he sneers, appraising the lewd length of your towel, “unseemly, clumsy…and  _loud_.” Rolling his eyes, the Chancellor tuts condescendingly, “Mm, I suppose it was too much to hope that you’d matured some in these past few years.” 

For several long moments, you can only gape up at him with a slowly furrowing brow, waiting for your brain to catch up with the situation. “Uh, ha. Sorry.” You shake your head rapidly and huff, “But…What the Hell are  _you_  doing in my room? And - more to the point -  _How_  the Hell do you know where I live?!” 

Now that the initial shock of having the Chancellor catch you with your trousers down his starting to ebb, there’s room for you to feel highly affronted. 

The undead lifts the hem of his long, emerald robe and steps over a pile of your discarded clothes, curling his lip in distaste. Once he’s standing in front of you, he peers down his hollow nose ridge, though there wasn’t much need to - he already towers over your head like some imposing, green obelisk that perpetually scowls. 

“Vulgrim,” he spits, as though just saying the name aloud is an insult to his dignity, “will-” Suddenly, The Chancellor pauses and casts a quizzical glance over your face. “-…By the way, what in Oblivion is wrong with your  _skin_ , human?” he asks, throwing you slightly. 

Quickly, you touch a hand to your cheek. “My-” The face mask.  “Oh,  _just_  - Forget about that!” you growl, “What  _about_  Vulgrim?” 

“Ah, yes. The demon will give olut almost  _any_  information, if the price is right.” 

Your hand drops to your side. “Why, that sneaky little-” Aghast and frankly quite disturbed, you step back and flick your eyes to the open door, wondering if you’ll need to make a mad dash for it. “So you traded with Vulgrim for my address? That’s-” You let out a shaky laugh. “- You know how creepy that is, right?” 

He purses his lips and scoffs. “Oh,  _please_. Don’t flatter yourself. I did not come here willingly, human. I’d’ve been perfectly happy going about my life and never seeing hide nor hair of  _you_  again.” 

“Yeah? Well, that makes two of us,” you mutter. Then, “Why  _are_  you here?”  

Glowering under his hood and pressing his thin lips into a tight line, The Chancellor gives off the very air of someone who absolutely does not want to say what he’s about to. “I am  _here_ ,” he starts, “because My Lord has  _requested_ your presence, and he sent  _me_  to collect you.”  

At your blank expression, he sighs, aggravated. “My Lord has generously extended an invitation to you, to attend a most prestigious gathering of more-” He clears his throat, raising a brow down at you, “- _dignified_  parties. Tonight, at the Eternal Throne.” 

“He wants  _me_  as a guest?” you query, “at a…a  _party_?”

The Chancellor draws himself up indignantly. “Ha! ‘ _Party_ ’,” he spits, “This is a  _distinguished_  event for his Lordship to build connections, to make reputable allies and strike accords with persons who offer particular influential gain.”

Pursing your lips, you blink at him, smirking. “So. Like a really  _boring_  party then?” 

The undead growls lowly but then squeezes his eyes shut and lifts a hand to his face, pressing his sharp fingernails to the flaking skin between his eye-sockets. “Ugh. Fine, fine! Yes, it’s a party. A party that  _you_  are expected to attend.” 

“Why on Earth does the Lord of Bones want  _me_  as a guest?” 

“You know, I asked much the same question.” The Chancellor’s teeth gleam out from between his sallow lips as he opens his mouth in a grimace. “Apparently, you are a curiosity. ‘The human who saved creation,’ is a subject on many lips, as of late.” 

You frown slightly, shifting on your feet. “ _Death_  was the one who saved creation, if anything. I just…came along for the ride.” 

“On  _that_ , we can agree,” the Chancellor sniffs derisively, “But Death is well-hated. You, on the other hand, are an unknown. Something of a prodigy because without your…ugh…help, Corruption would have continued to spread its disease across the realms..” He waves his hand about, finally tearing his scrutinising glare off of you and turning to regard your room. “Bah, I don’t want to stroke your vulgar little ego by calling you a minor celebrity, but essentially….” 

Your lips crack open slightly. “No way. I’m  _famous_  in other realms?” 

By the Chancellor’s begrudging and pointed silence, you think it’s safe to assume that you’re correct. He stalks over to your nightstand and gingerly plucks your sleek phone up between two fingers, twisting it around in front of his scrunched up face and scrutinising it suspiciously. “ _Infamous_  might be more accurate. But regardless, my Lord seems to think that your attendance would put him in good stead with several highborns.” The screen of your phone lights up abruptly and a tinny ding chimes out, causing the undead to gasp and fling it down onto your bed. 

Stifling a giggle, you take his distraction as an opportunity to bend down and start clearing up the mess of bottles. “Well. I’m flattered that he wants me there…”

“Hmph. Naturally,” The Chancellor grumbles. 

“But I’m afraid I have to decline.” 

There’s a sudden, awful sputtering accompanied by an incredulous squawk from behind you. “I - You - I  _beg_  your pardon!?” Glancing over your shoulder, you notice the undead has gone rigid, his hand pressed tightly to his chest and his jaw dropped open so widely that his chin almost connects with the exposed collar bone. 

“Sorry,” you shrug, gathering several different moisturisers into your arms, “But I already have  _very_  pressing engagements tonight.” A lie, of course. You planned to don your silk pyjamas and lounge on your sofa all night listening to music and texting friends. 

“You have received an invitation from a  _king_!” the undead screeches, throwing his arms out to the side and nearly knocking a picture from your chest of drawers, “You don’t get much more  _pressing_  than that!”

“Well, just tell him ‘thank you’ but I can’t attend. I’m sure he won’t mind.” 

“But! But you must attend!” 

“Why  _must_  I?” you argue, rolling your eyes.

“Well, because… _Because_!…” 

Unbeknownst to you, the Chancellor looks about ready to internally combust. ‘ _How dare you refuse a command from me! No, from the Lord of Bones!_ ’ The undead glares hard at your back as you stand up and set your strange potions back on that little table, then reach out to right the stool made from the fur of some wretched, white animal. After another minute though, he deflates. ‘ _There’s little use trying to catch this fly with vinegar_ ,’ he muses, ‘ _better try honey._ ’ Racking his brain, The Chancellor struggles to think of something to say that might sway you. 

Suddenly, his eyes widen when he lands upon an idea. A connection. A link that would surely draw you back to the Dead Lands of your  _own_  accord. The sly smile that creeps across his face would have unnerved you had you been looking. 

“Because,” he reiterates, his voice much calmer now, “ _Draven_  was  _SO_  looking forward to seeing you again.” 

The tiny perfume bottle drops from your fingers and thuds softly onto the carpet at your feet. “Oh… _dammit_.”


	2. Getting Ready

That son of a bitch…

With a grumpy huff, you plonk yourself down in your stool and glare at the Chancellor in the reflection of your vanity. Even beneath the shadow of his lavish, green hood, the undead’s smug pout is about as annoying as you remember it being. 

You know exactly what he’s up to as well, dropping in Draven’s name like that. After all, it’s no secret that you consider the king’s Blademaster a close, personal friend and vice versa. There are even rumours and whispers among the residents of the Eternal Throne that you’re sweet on each other, a point of gossip that never fails to dust your cheeks with colour.   
Although he isn’t the most  _conventionally_  attractive man you’ve ever met – what with his rotting skin, exposed teeth and lipless mouth – Draven is charming, roguish and an absolutely  _shameless_  flirt. Whenever Death visited the Dead Lands, it was a common occurrence to see you trotting through the entrance to the Eternal Throne’s courtyard and getting swept up in the arms of the strong and daunting undead.

It’s been almost half a year since you’d last seen your friend and you’re really starting to miss him terribly, a fact that the Chancellor is all too aware of and thus is trying to exploit.   
And damn him to Hell, it’s working.

“So,” he drawls, sounding mightily pleased with himself, “shall I tell his majesty that you  _won’t_  be attending? Oh, and shall I extend the… _dreadful_  news to the Blademaster as well?”

Shooting him a steely glare, you draw in a deep breath and then let it out as obnoxiously as you can through pursed lips, glad that the boorish action irks him enough to make him recoil a little. “Fmmn, cmnrgh..” you grumble, bending under the vanity to grab your hairdryer, the inklings of an idea crossing your mind as soon as you fingers wrap around its handle.

The Chancellor cocks his head and cups a skeletal hand around his ear mockingly. “Oh, I  _am_  sorry. What was that? You’ll have to speak up. I can’t understand humans when they mumble.”

“I said ’ _fine_ ,” you huff, swivelling about on your stool to face him and pointing the nozzle of the hairdryer right between his eyes, relishing the way that insufferable smile vanishes in the blink of an eye, “I’ll go.”   
Without another word, you flick the switch to the highest setting. 

A rush of hot air erupts from the machine in your hands so loudly, the Chancellor emits a noise that punches high above the din and he flails backwards, trips over a pile of clothes and crashes into the bedside table. One hand clutches at the space where a heart used to be and the other is braced on the wood, his chest heaving and eyes wild and startled, though they quickly narrow at the sound of you giggling fit to burst on your stool. “Oh! My! God!” you gasp between bouts of laughter, “I can’t believe! You got scared by a – a  _hairdryer_!”

As gracefully as he can, the Chancellor pushes himself back onto his feet and flings you the most vicious glare he can muster. “Shut  _ **up**_!” he snaps, patting down his rumpled robes.   
To his surprise, instead of laughing harder, you slap a hand over your mouth, in what’s at least an  _attempt_  to preserve any remaining shreds of his dignity, although your eyes still twinkle with amusement. Still, he throws his arms across his chest and stares icily, temper flaring. “It was  _not_  funny!”

Collecting yourself after another moment or two of stifling giggles, you fan your eyes and sniff, “Oh lighten up. It was  _kind_  of funny.”

If even possible, his brow bone furrows so deeply, it almost obscures his eyes from view. “No. It was  _not_.”

Shaking your head at his sour expression, you turn the machine onto your hair, fluffing it up with a few fingers. “Whatever. Tea?” you call.  

“ _What_?”

Tutting once and rolling your eyes, you set about giving yourself a quick blow dry, drawing no small amount of amusement at how his foot taps impatiently on the rug. Once your hair is only slightly damp, you unplug the hairdryer and stand up, running a brush through the messy locks. “I always have a cup of tea after a shower.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his scowl begins to lift. “What is a….a  _tea_?”

Aghast, you stare at him in the mirror with a look of astonishment. “Tea is..it’s  _tea_. It’s…a hot drink? Uh, with milk? I-… Look, would you like one or not?”

“I-” The Chancellor’s gaze darts around the room, searching for the  _other_  person. The one you’re surely talking to instead of him. What could you hope to gain from offering him a drink…. Wait!

His eyes narrow suspiciously.

Maybe you’re trying to poison him…

…No. That wouldn’t make sense. He’s already dead. Even  _you’re_  not that stupid. Which begs the question;  _why_  make such an accommodating offer?

When he realises that you’re staring at him expectantly, waiting for a response, the undead clears his throat and decides to avoid giving you a direct answer. Instead, he snaps, “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to leave?”

“I  _am_  getting ready,” you tell him, “Tea is all part of the process.”

“But we- You’re going to make us  _late_!” he sputters, curling his hands into fists.

Offering up one of your dramatic sighs, you get up off the stool and sweep by him, lifting your silken dressing gown from its hook above the door. “ _Fashionably_  late,” you correct, “ _honestly,_  Chancellor, there’s a difference. It’ll be fine! Come on.”

Bustling out the room, you beckon for the glowering undead to follow, strategically letting your towel drop onto the floor and pulling on the dressing gown in its stead.  
Behind you, the Chancellor makes a face at the knowledge that the only thing separating his delicate eyes from your naked body is a thin, floor length piece of floaty fabric. He curls his lip distastefully and a shudder rolls over him.   
Giving the discarded towel a wide berth, as though he’s worried that just by being in close proximity to it will give him some kind of parasitic disease, he follows you out of the bedroom and into the adjacent living room, attached to which is one of the most cluttered kitchens he’s ever seen – not that he’s seen many.

The kettle rattles noisily on its stand as it comes to a boil, gurgling out a blast of searing hot steam into the air. “Ah, perfect timing!” you chirp, trotting into a section of the room that’s squared off by dark, granite-top counters and an unnecessarily large, black fridge. The Chancellor, for lack of anything else to do, trails behind and allows his gaze to wander, curiosity quickly replacing irritation as he takes in the appliances and otherworldly technology he’s never laid eyes upon. If he weren’t so proud, he’d be firing ceaseless questions at you right now.

“Sorry about the mess,” you call, grabbing a copper crock pot off the draining board and shoving it into a cupboard below the sink. “I had some friends over for supper last night and I never got around to cleaning up.”

Stopping behind you to turn his nose up at the state of your kitchen, he doesn’t bother to withhold a contemptuous scoff. “Tch, you don’t say.”

Peering at you from the corner of his eye, he waits to see if you’ll rise to the bait. Though when it becomes clear that you  _won’t_ , that you plan to ignore him until you’ve put some of the dirty plates and bowls in your dishwasher, he clicks his tongue and begins to slowly turn in place, taking in all that he can see of the room.

The Chancellor’s pale, lifeless eyes rove steadily from the leaky faucet above the sink, to a large bowl of fruit perched precariously close to the counter’s edge. Spinning about again in a half circle, his gaze shifts until it lands on a strange object, sitting below a glass cabinet. His face twists up, confused by this new discovery. The undead casts you a sideways glance, glad that you still seem preoccupied with putting cutlery in a drawer, so he deems it a good opportunity to explore his surroundings a little. After all, when would he get the chance again? Stalking up to the mystery object, he bends down and inspects it closely, lifting a finger to give it a hesitant prod and hurriedly snatching his hand away, in case it decides to bite it off.

Instead, it remains silent and still, as a result, some of the tension he carries in his shoulders begins to seep out slowly. Bolder now, he runs his fingers over a round, sleek, black surface that’s ridged with square bumps in the centre of it, each with a word written in silver just below them. Cautious still, he traces his fingertips over the one that says ’ _pause_ ’ and mumbles quietly to himself, holding back another scoff when his explorations produce no instantaneous results. ’ _Only humans would make something so bizarre and yet so seemingly useless_.’   
Much like the little creatures  _themselves_ , he supposes. Humming, he moves a gangly hand over to another odd, square lump, this one with ‘Stop’ inscribed beneath. Still no closer to figuring out the thing’s purpose, the Chancellor moves on to ghost his fingers over the third bump. ‘Play.’

“Hmm…” Brow bones crawling together to form a stern frown, he taps the tip of his forefinger against the bump – if nothing more than to show it who’s boss.

However, he was wholly unprepared for the unexpected cacophony of noise to blast out of seemingly nowhere. 

_**“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you….Take me back to the night we met!…”  
** _

Letting out an earsplitting shriek, the Chancellor throws himself backwards, collides violently with the counter behind him and ends up knocking your fruit bowl to the ground, scattering apples, bananas and pears across the shiny tiles.

“Chancellor!” you scold, marching over to the CD player and swivelling the knob to a more sociable volume. “If you could  _refrain_  from wrecking my kitchen, I’d appreciate it!”

Caught off guard for the second time in less than an hour, the undead gives you a look that would be reminiscent of a pout, had he any lips. “Well, it’s hardly  _my_  fault!” he squawks, “It was that- that!…What  _is_  that?”

“Uh. It’s  _music_?” you say, as if it weren’t obvious.

The Chancellor harrumphs and tries to look dignified whilst pushing himself up off a counter to adjust the hood of his robe. “Pah! That is  _not_  music.  _That_  is noise.”

Your brows dip into a scowl at the blatant disrespect but you bite your tongue and move towards one of the dropped fruit, a pear, to be precise. Unfortunately, in reaching for it, you don’t spot the apple resting directly in your path. As soon as the ball of your foot comes down on it, the apple rolls out from under you and with a yelp, you fall forwards….

…right into a pair of green-clothed arms. The Chancellor lets out a disgruntled ’ _oof_ ’ as your momentum carries you straight into his chest and on an impulse, his hands dart forwards to steady you.

Immeasurably surprised, you stare awkwardly at his chest and he looks down at the top of your head, his nasal passages filling with the scent of shampoo that drifts up off your soft, damp hair. Eventually, he drops his gaze further to look at the hands he’s cupped under your arms, his long, bony fingers spread evenly across your ribs where he can feel your tiny heartbeat fluttering like a bird in a cage. For a moment, the two of you remain frozen where you are. His hands had moved of their own accord to catch you. If he’d had the time to think, of  _course_  he’d let you fall to the ground….wouldn’t he?

Equally shocked and with a slowly mounting swell of dread, the Chancellor blinks down at you when you lift your head to at last meet his gaze, eyebrow ridges almost disappearing behind the fabric of his hood and jaw working open and closed as his brain tries to catch up to his tongue. He realises with a start, that this is the first time he’s ever touched you. There’s never been the desire nor reason to and he’s caught off guard because he hadn’t ever imagined that you would be so… _warm_  beneath his palms.

The Chancellor’s jaw clacks shut around a dry tongue.

In all his years serving the Lord of Bones, it never occurred to him that he was  _cold_. Then again, everything in the Dead Lands is cold - unnaturally,  _life_ lessly cold.  
 An unpleasant chill settles in his chest cavity and the only reason he notices it is because he has your body pressed against his. Your warm, living, breathing body…

He’s been dead for so long, he’s forgotten what warmth is – until now. How could he have forgotten something so spellbinding?

The Chancellor is so caught up in his surprised musings, he doesn’t notice that you’re trying to tug yourself free.

“Chancellor?” You wince at the pressure of his spindly fingers tightening around your torso. Peering up into his sunken eyes, normally so overflowing with contempt and hate, you realise that now they’re round and unfocused and rather than staring  _at_  you, he appears to be looking straight  _through_  you, as though he’s lost himself to a distant memory.

Still, it’s eerie and not to mention awkward, being held so firmly and for so long by an undead who supposedly can’t stand you.

Tentatively, you try to step backwards out of his grasp and you call his name again, this time getting a response. The Chancellor’s eyes brighten slightly as he shakes his head and finally seems to notice you, at last registering the fact that he’s touching you…willingly!   
In a second, his face screws up and he abruptly snatches his hands off you, shoving you away with a disgusted grunt. “Wretch! Get  _off_  me!”

Scoffing, you rub tenderly at the pale indents left by his fingers and glare at him. “Ex _cuse_  me?! You’re the one who wouldn’t let  _me_  go!”

Feathers clearly ruffled, the Chancellor’s lips peel back to reveal sharp canines and his eyes burn with a malicious glint. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spits and averts his gaze, choosing instead to stare at the steam that rises elegantly out of the kettle’s spout.

You hum suspiciously but decide not to push the issue. He seems….on edge tonight, more so than usual. Against your better judgement, you draw in a deep breath and casually bend to start picking up the fruit once more. The undead doesn’t make a move to help, which, in all honesty, doesn’t surprise you. As you place the apples, pears and bananas back in the bowl, you flick your eyes over to him, finding that he’s now staring at you, although when he sees that you’ve spotted him, he sneers contemptuously and whips his head in the opposite direction.

“ _Weirdo_ ,” you mutter, putting the bowl of bruised fruit back on the counter top. Brushing past the undead towards the kettle, you reach over to grab a pair of mugs hanging from a hook next to the biscuit barrel and plop a teabag in each. “You’re acting…weirder than usual,” you say matter-of-factly, earning the back of your head a heated glare. However, his eyes lose some of their rigid vehemence as you gently ask over your shoulder, “Are you alright?”

Pausing, the Chancellor has to take a moment to collect himself after your query. It actually sounded….genuine.

Wary that the question itself is some kind of trap meant to trick him into an amicable conversation, he harrumphs loudly and tilts his nose up at you, grunting out a vague noise by way of a reply.

For a few, quiet moments, you simply watch him, your eyebrows slowly pulling together. In the end, all you can think to do is roll your eyes as you turn back to the mugs and grab the kettle, tipping it carefully and filling each one almost to the brim. At your back, the Chancellor’s stuffy expression melts, replaced with a mild curiosity as he peers down at what you’re doing, watching you add milk to both mugs – hesitate - then scoop a spoonful of sugar in afterwards. He jumps after you suddenly murmur, “Thank you, by the way.”

Cocking his head slightly, the undead’s voice is cautious when he asks, “For what?”

“For catching me.” Even as you say it, you pull a face, the words tasting wrong and unnatural on your tongue. ’ _Thanking the Chancellor? What’s gotten into me_?’

Unbeknownst to you, the crotchety old undead is having similar thoughts. ’ _She’s thanking me_?  _What has gotten into this human? Nobody thanks me!’_ Struck, he blinks at the sudden, sad realisation. ’ _Nobody_ _ **ever**_ _thanks me._..’

It’s strange, he isn’t touching you but a burst of heat trickles up his hollow cheeks and he sniffs, mumbling, “It was nothing,” without really thinking about it.

Tapping the spoon on the side of your mug, you shoot him a sly smirk over your shoulder.

He catches the look and frowns at you. “..What?”

“….Nothing, nothing. Never mind.” Shaking your head, you grab the teas and hide a secret smile before twirling about to hand him his mug, “Here you are. Oh but, be careful. It’s hot.”

The Chancellor levels a glare at the cup in your hands and then flicks his eyes up to regard you cautiously. “I…will not benefit from-” he falters, deterred by your hopeful eyes. It’s funny, he can’t recall them being  _that_  bright in the Eternal Throne….Perhaps the kitchen’s lighting is in your favour.  “That is to say, I do not have use for food..  _or_ drink.” Absently, he watches the steam rise out of the mug and remembers the sensation of warmth; the evasive, fleeting embrace that he’s itching to experience again. And the way your smile droops ever so slightly….A wayward voice in his mind whispers that it’s wrong – like walking into a room that you love, and finding that someone has taken something out of it. Just a small thing, a picture frame, a book or a painting. An item that you don’t notice is missing right away but your brain  _tells_  you that something isn’t right, though you can’t place why. Your face is a face that’s  _meant_ to smile. So to see one waver like that leaves him inexplicably rattled.   
The Chancellor barely suppresses a groan. ”Bah. On second thoughts, since you’ve already made the damn thing….”

——————-

It’s a bizarre and unusual life you lead, sitting at your vanity once again and dotting foundation beneath your eyes whilst a living corpse perches uncertainly on your bed, looking utterly out of place on the cotton sheets and patterned cushions with a mug of hot tea clasped between his gangly hands. Half of your attention is on your task and the other half focuses on the reflection of him in the mirror. There’s a gentle clink of his nails tapping on the china mug and every now and then, he looks towards you and opens his mouth, only for it to click shut again moments later. Its clear that he wants to say something but always seems to change his mind at the last second. You never pegged him as shy. Yet here in your bedroom, he’s behaving like he’s never held a conversation before.

After the fifth time his head swivels in your direction, you allow yourself a mental sigh, deciding to take pity, for once. “So,” you pipe up, causing him to jolt and almost spill tea all over his lap, “How’re things in the Eternal Throne?”

Sharp as a knife, he snaps, “Well, you’ll find out for yourself when we  _eventually_  get there.”

His reply puts a disappointed frown on your face, though you simply huff and resume patting your cheeks with a powder puff.   
On the bed, the Chancellor’s hard scowl lifts a fraction and he swallows habitually, peering down into the tea; the tea you’d  _made_  him. You hadn’t even asked for anything in return..

 _Idiot_. How have you survived this long when you  _clearly_  don’t know how to negotiate a deal?

Still…..he had to admit it was….gracious of you. Lifting the mug up to his face, he hesitates for a minute or two, inhaling softly through his mouth and filling lungs that aren’t even supposed to work any more. Closing his eyes, the Chancellor slowly puts the mug to his dry, flaking lips and takes his first sip. 

As soon as the hot liquid hits his tongue, he grunts in surprise. This ‘tea’ isn’t half bad. Although, the  _best_  thing about it is the slow trickle of heat that winds its way down his oesophagus, despite it leaking out of a few holes here and there. The Chancellor grumbles when a several drops fall escape down the front of his neck, dribbling through a hole left by decay, and wet his hood. 

Clearing his throat, he raps a fingernail against the pretty, polkadot green cup and turns his gaze to the back of your head. “How…How are things on Earth?”

Your hand stops halfway to your eye, poised to add some mascara over a light dusting of eyeshadow.

“Uh….” you hesitate, surprised. “Good. Things are good. Well, as good as they can be now that we’re missing a chunk of the population and we’ve had to rebuild everything that was destroyed, which is….Ha.  _Every_ thing. But the makers have helped a lot. Honestly, they’re a godsend.”

The Chancellor harrumphs at the last part. “Hmph. They had to be good for  _some_ thing, I suppose.” Curiously his eyes rove over your bedroom, taking in the painted walls and large, adorned window seat above your headboard. “They helped you rebuild all of  _this_?”

“Just the roof, most of the house was intact. Muria helped with the garden.”

He doesn’t know who Muria is, nor does he especially care.”Wouldn’t you rather live near other humans?” he asks, “I was under the impression that your kind were pack animals.”

Pulling the mascara brush up through your lashes, you reply listlessly, “Yeah, I was offered one of the intact high-rises in the city, but Death didn’t think it was a good idea.”

The undead’s teeth click together at the mention of the horseman. “Have you always done what  _Death_  tells you to?”

Humming, you shrug. “Well, he made some pretty good points. I had no idea there were so many strategic disadvantages to living in a skyscraper, but apparently Death is the expert.” Your brow creases into a thoughtful frown. “I don’t know where he even  _found_  those building plans…” You trail off and give it another moment’s thought before shaking your head and continuing with your makeup whilst the Chancellor observes curiously, cocking his head as you run a finger delicately along a row of black, tube shaped objects, eventually selecting one and tugging off the lid. You raise it to your lips and begin gently swiping it over the soft flesh, and as you do, you fail to notice that the dressing gown slips off your shoulder and drapes elegantly over your back.   
Behind you, the Chancellor’s jaw freezes halfway to asking another question and he gapes, transfixed by the strangely appealing view.

When had the gentle slope of your neck and the soft arch between your shoulder blades become so captivating?

He abruptly realises he’s been staring and tears his eyes off your supple skin, finger bones cracking noisily as he tightens them around the mug. That was….unexpected. The undead’s thin lips twist into a distasteful grimace. He feels dirty.

“You…say you were offered another place of residence….” he fumbles, coughing to disguise the crack in his voice, “what did you mean by that?”

You put on a final swipe of lipstick and lean back to inspect it, wiping the corners of your mouth of any excess. “Well, as it turns out, people kind of  _like_  it when you bring them back from the dead….After Death restored humanity, I went down to Earth with the Crowfather and Nathaniel. There was another angel there too….Azrael? I think his name was Azrael… _Any_ way, we were there to pick up the pieces, tell everyone what happened. But somewhere along the way, things got…lost in connection. Like Chinese whispers.” 

You look back at him and find his expression is hopelessly lost, so you wave a hand dismissively. “Ah, never mind. Basically, what started as ’ _a human was there when an ethereal being saved humanity_ ,’ became ’ _a human being saved humanity_.’ It took a long time, but word spread fast and eventually, people started coming from all over the world to see  _me_ because someone got the grid up and running and we put on an emergency broadcast out of those old ham radios, you know?”

The Chancellor nods thoughtful, though he does not, in fact, have a clue what a radio is.

“They started calling me the Restorer of Man. Ha!  _Me?_  I just told them the truth, that  _Death_  had been the one to save them….Of course, then Death actually showed up and even the people who were convinced I was lying had to believe what we were saying.” 

A dreary look flits across your face and you turn your eyes to a nearby perfume bottle. “There was…a lot of infighting in those first, few weeks. Especially between religious folk, but nobody could deny it….Of course, anyone who would have turned to things like murder and violence became Wicked after the End-War, so nothing really came of the fights. They were more like…arguments. Arguing and arguing until it all settled down and everyone just got on with their lives again. Because all that other stuff? It just didn’t matter. We all had a second chance to live and we could squander it or we could…”

Trailing off, you blink and smile at him through the mirror. “Ah, but I’m going on, aren’t I?”

“Oh yes, you certainly are,” he purses his lips, agreeing a bit too readily.

Carefully, you open a little drawer in the vanity and dig around for a while, eventually pulling out a delicate, silver necklace. “Getting back to the point; people thought I deserved a – a reward, I guess? For helping to save them. Everywhere I went, people offered me things I didn’t need. A home in the city was one of them. But they all glossed over  _Death_ , like he hadn’t even done anything – like  _he_ _wasn’t_  the one that saved the world. Now, that just didn’t seem right to me. Anyway…I thanked them but, said I’d rather find my own place to settle down. I left the city after the rebuilding efforts were under way and came to live out here.”

“But why care?” the Chancellor asks, narrowing his eyes, incredulous, “Why would you care if they glorified you, and not the horseman? I thought  _you’d_  like the attention?”

“It wasn’t my attention to have.” You tut, frustrated when your fingers fumble with the delicate clasp of the necklace. “Not that Death wanted it either, though… _Goddammit_.” Letting out an angry huff, you resist the urge to chuck the necklace across your room. “Ugh, I always have trouble with this one….Say, could you give me a hand?”

The undead sitting on your duvet balks. “With  _what_?”

“With  _this_. I can’t get the clasp.” Swivelling about in the seat, you hold the necklace out to him. “It’s easy, you just hold down this little-”

All of a sudden, the Chancellor cuts you off, his tone curt and biting. “And why should I help  _you_?”

A little burst of disappointment niggles at the back of your mind at his abrupt standoffishness. The conversation had been steering towards smoother waters and you’d actually begun to hope that he was moving past his prejudice. Swallowing back the bitter taste of discontent, you sigh and drop your hand into your lap. “God, I’m not asking you to lick my shoes clean, I  _just_  need you to help me with my necklace…Or has the rigour mortis stopped your fingers from working properly?”

“I beg your pardon!?” he sputters, eyes bulging in their sunken sockets, “I’ll have you know my hands are just as dextrous as any  _human’s_.” As he speaks, he all but leaps to his feet, though he does place the mug down on your bedside table with a surprising degree of care before marching across the room towards you, his robes swishing to and fro around the jagged gait.

Upon reaching you, he leans down and snatches the necklace from your hand, snapping, “Give me that!”

Amused but more than a little bewildered, you concede to swivel about on the stool to face your mirror once again, scrutinising him in its reflection before bending your head forward, presenting him with the back of your neck. Fingers fumbling with the clasp for a moment, the Chancellor moves to loop the silver chain around your throat when he suddenly draws to a halt, staring down at the exposed skin and the hair that falls softly over your skull.

There’s no saliva in his mouth to speak of, yet he swallows all the same. The heat from your shower still lingers on your skin, and he can feel it ghost along and around the hand he has poised above you…

There’s something undeniably abstruse about  _life_ …

For centuries, the Chancellor has gone about his days convinced that life is a curse, an unfortunate state of being that serves as nothing more than a hinderance, a liability.

The living are susceptible to disease, hunger, fatigue, love and eventually death. Yes…being dead is far more desirable. 

Or so he’d managed to convince himself. However, the gentle silkiness of your hair that slides through his fingers as he brushes it off your neck is more exhilarating than anything he could have anticipated, and he realises, in a snap, that being undead is cold and lonely and embittering and so unlike the life that’s bursting out of you in spades. He doesn’t remember…..had there ever been a time when  _he_ was alive? 

He can’t fathom the enormity of such a thing as life…

“Chancellor? “

Once again, the undead finds himself ripped out of his thoughts by your soft voice and he shakes his head head so hard that it almost dislodges his hood. Catching your eye in the mirror, he notes your pinched brow and the way his hands linger absently next to your ears with the necklace wrapped almost entirely around your neck, yet he still hasn’t fastened it into place. It just hangs there, the small, pearl pendant resting on your clavicle. 

“You’ve been zoning out a lot this evening,” you carefully mention, though your worried frown soon lifts into a hesitant smile, “been away from the Throne for too long, have you?” 

Distracted by the poor attempt at a humorous remark, the Chancellor clears his throat and slides the necklace into place, clasping the ends together until they’re completely secured. “Yes, well,” he grumbles, “and whose fault might that be?”

Allowing yourself an airy chuckle, you sweep your hair back over your neck as he takes a step away. “Alright, alright. I’m almost done….Now all that’s left is the…Now, where did I-…ah!” 

Curious, he watches you stand up and make your way over to a tall wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom, where a dress dangles from a clothes hanger hooked over the top of the door. It’s a relatively simple frock; sleek, black and long to the floor with an off-shoulder, sweetheart neckline.   
On the hanger, it’s demure and admittedly plain.

But when it’s on  _you…_

Well, at the risk of sounding conceited, it  _has_  boasted a few turned heads in its time. 

Pulling the dress down, you toss its hanger onto the bed and very nearly shrug out of your dressing gown when you suddenly remember present company. 

Quick as a flash, you tug the sleeve back up to cover your shoulder and turn, dress in hand, to the Chancellor. “Um, just need to pop this on,” you awkwardly grin, shifting on your feet. The undead offers you a hesitant bow of his head, but otherwise, he doesn’t move. 

Clearing your throat, you add, “Right now. I’m about to get changed.” 

Silence as he continues to stare at you obliviously, his face a mixture of confusion and mild annoyance. Eventually, you let out an exasperated huff and ask, “So, are you just going to stand there and  _watch?_  Or…?”

At last, something seems to click in his sand-addled brain and he gives a start, eyebrow ridges shooting up as he stumbles in his haste to whirl about so that he might spare himself from having to gaze on your soon-to-be-naked body. The undead stands facing the window, stiff as a board, and trying to keep his mind off the goings on behind him. 

But the soft rustling of fabric and the pull of a zip makes you rather hard to ignore. You march over to the chest of drawers and open it, picking out a clean pair of nickers and a matching bra and donning them hurriedly. After that, it doesn’t take you long to shimmy into the dress and stretch around to do up the back before smoothing out the skirt with a few sweeps of your palm.  

“Are you  _done_  yet?” The Chancellor barks sharply. 

Pulling the sleeves into their proper place, you click your tongue and roll your eyes, replying, “Yeah, yeah. I’m in. Relax.” 

“Hmmph. It’s about damn time,” he grumbles, turning to face you again, “Any longer and his Lordship will hang me from the-”

What remaining words he might have elected to say suddenly catch in the Chancellor’s throat upon laying eyes on you. To his immense luck, you’re in the process of looking down to slip on a pair of jet-black, high heels that can only just be seen poking out from beneath the hem of your dress. Thanks to your distractibility, the old undead has time to disguise the fleeting patterns of dumbfoundment that glide across his features, one after the other. First, his lips part around a soft intake of breath, then he blinks,  _hard_ , and his brow slowly raises until it almost disappears behind the line of his hood. In a matter of moments however, he fights to school his expression back into its trademark sneer, even as his eyes rove up and down the dress.

“Well?” you ask, spreading your arms out wide and twisting around to show off the way the fabric moves, “What do you think?” 

Adamant that he won’t be duped into paying you a compliment, the Chancellor folds his hands together neatly behind his back and snorts. “You’re ready, and you don’t look terrible.  _Hallelujah_. Can we go now?” 

“Just a second.” You trot to the vanity and grab a large perfume bottle, raise it to your neck and give yourself three, quick sprays - one to your throat and two to each of your wrists. 

The Chancellor has to refrain from clapping his hands when you finally,  **finally**  grab your shoulder bag and head to the door. Just as you reach the kitchen though, you jerk to a stop with a gasp. “Oh! I almost forgot!” 

Before he can blink, you disappear off to a little room at the side of your kitchenette, and soon after, the sound of clinking glass and rustling reaches. 

“What are you doing  _now_?!” he rasps.   
Marching over to the door, he’s about to throw it open and drag you out by your ear when you suddenly burst forth, a bottle of something clutched daintily between your palms. 

“A gift,” you elaborate after he gives it a dubious look, “for the host.” 

The Chancellor’s long-dried lungs expand with a deep inhale. “The Lord of Bones will have no use, nor any  _desire_  for this paltry little….gift.”

Blowing out an offended scoff, you hold the bottle up so he can see the label, not that he really knows what he’s supposed to be looking at. “Um. This ‘ _gift_ ’ is 1974 Cheval Blanc. There were only about a hundred thousand bottles ever made. It is very rare and  _very_  expensive. One of those ‘rewards’ for saving the world. But  _I’m_  not going to use it, so….” 

As you sweep past him, you leave a trail of subtle perfume in your wake. It filters into his nasal passages and fills his head with a dizzying, dazzling scent unlike anything he’s ever experienced in the Eternal Throne. Quietly, he breathes it in and allows himself to bask in a brief second of intoxicating bliss. 

Upon reaching your front door, you pause to glance back at the undead, quirking an eyebrow at the semi-impressed, appraising glow in his hollow gaze. 

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he softly replies. “I simply hadn’t expected you to have become so refined during these past few years.” 

His attention is drawn to your hips as you cock them and fold your arms, eyes dancing amusedly. “Hmph. This is how I’ve always been, Chancellor. Whether I’m ‘refined’ or not, is a matter of opinion.” 

“You were….not like this when I first met you,” he mutters carefully. 

“Well. Maybe you just never bothered to get to know me. That, and it’s amazing what a little sleep and a healthy meal can do to one’s attitude. I was exhausted when I met you, and hungry  _and_  scared. I’d just lost my whole world. So, I  _apologise_  if I wasn’t coming across as ‘refined,’ back then.”

Perhaps sensing that he’s touched a nerve, and unwilling to ensnare himself into a time consuming argument, the hooded undead sidles up to you and, on some ancient whim that’s almost long forgotten, he offers you his elbow. 

“This will be less than dignified, but I’m afraid physical contact is necessary when traversing through gateways.”

Staring down at the proffered limb, all green and so decayed in places, you can see the bleached-white bone beneath the skin. You give your fingers a quick flex, asking, “I thought we’d be taking Vulgrim’s serpent holes?” 

“Pah! I wouldn’t be caught dead,” the Chancellor hisses. 

Humming absent-mindedly, you push down the unease that accompanies the thought of touching on this particular undead and place your hand over the top of his forearm, the Cheval clutched in your other fist.

With an elaborate dip of his head, he sweeps his arm through the air, muttering something in a language far too old and  _far_  too deep for you to pick up. There’s a bright flash of green light that forces you to squeeze your eyes shut for a second, and when you open them, it’s to find that your front door has been turned into a swirling, shimmering portal, beyond which you can make out the familiar courtyard of the Eternal Throne. “Well then,” The Chancellor says, shifting his head to regard you curiously, “Shall we?” 

Excited, nervous, and just a little bit shy, you nod and follow his lead, stepping daintily through the portal and out of one world into the next. 


End file.
